


i'm afraid of americans

by teenagegiles



Category: Blur (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Semi-Public Sex, fucking about in america like lads, seven-eleven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27985149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenagegiles/pseuds/teenagegiles
Summary: Damon hates America. Alex loves that Damon hates America.
Relationships: Damon Albarn/Alex James
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	i'm afraid of americans

**Author's Note:**

> title from i'm afraid of americans by bowie (duh)

Damon doesn’t particularly like America. He gets homesick easy, he misses everything about England sometimes: the subtle, nuanced rudeness of the general public, the way there’s always proper football playing in the pubs, the dress code. He’s in the Midwest at the moment, Chicago, and everyone keeps greeting him on the streets even if they’ve no idea who he is. He doesn’t like it. 

However, if there’s one thing he likes about Americans, it’s their willingness to latch on to any culture presented to them, even if it’s in a painfully stereotypical way. That’s why he’s sat in an American British-knockoff bar in the middle of the city, watching a game of women’s football as it pours down outside. They ducked in some time back to escape the relentless rain. It’s not an exceptionally interesting game, he’s actually sure it’s a rerun, but it’s a comfort nonetheless to see the sport he actually likes and not the misnamed American rip-off. Plus, he’s not being drenched. 

Graham, despite the boring game, seems to be fascinated by it. He’s watching the screen like he’s never seen women kicking around a ball before, lips agape. He’s also drunk, having found a beer that particularly reminded him of home and continuing to have seven of them. Graham gets homesick easy too. America’s taken a toll on him. 

Damon watches his lightweight friend pitifully from across the table, inwardly feeling his pain. He’s had a couple beers himself, not nearly as many as Graham, and he’s grateful for that. The concept of being drunk in the middle of America gives him chills.

Alex’s entertained by the whole thing, watching Graham. He taps roughly on the table, making Graham jump. “What’s the score?” He asks, quirk to his lips. It’s true he can’t actually see the screen from where he’s sitting, but that’s not the real reason he asked. 

Graham cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy and stares back at him, cause in the couple of seconds he’s looked away from the screen, he’s already forgotten. Alex is sent into a fit of giggles and Damon pushes him lightly. Graham looks back to the screen.

“Dave, you ought to take him back, he’s not going to be able to walk right in the rain,” Alex says, through his last couple of laughs. 

Dave sighs real heavy and tugs his hand through his hair, but he knows that Alex is right. The poor brunette can barely walk straight down an aisle when he’s drunk, nevertheless through the wet, confusing Chicago streets. Dave looks back at the rest of the band. “You going to come with us, then?” 

Alex and Damon share a look, and Alex shrugs, shakes his head. It’s obvious that he doesn’t mind America. Damon occasionally thinks that his bassist might’ve been born in the wrong country, but he also doesn’t think anyone sounds better saying British slang than him. It occurs to him that maybe, if he spends enough time around him, it’ll rub off on him.

Damon makes a noncommittal gesture and shakes his head. “Nah, we’ll meet you later.”

“How come you guys always get to have all the fun?” Dave fakes a whine, but it’s all in good humor. He doesn’t much like staying out late anyways, he’s always the one who drinks the least. He takes Graham up under his arm, who mumbles a protest, something about missing the end of the game. It almost makes them laugh, because in the morning, he’s probably not going to remember the game much anyways.

Damon and Alex wave as the pair stumbles out leglessly. “See you in the morning, Graham!” Alex shouts after them cockily. Damon rolls his eyes.

“One day he’s going to remember all the shit you’ve said to him while he’s drunk,” The blonde comments. He wonders momentarily how Alex always seems so relaxed and poised.

Alex follows through with another shrug and a grin that makes his eyes practically shine. “And he’ll still love me,” he replies. 

“Bold statement, James. I’m not even sure that I like you all that much,” Damon takes another sip of his drink, and both of them know he’s lying. Alex hits him lightly upside the head anyway, fucks up his hair. 

“No, you just act all bratty when you’re in America.” Alex points out in a drawl. He lets his finger drag along the edge of his glass before he looks up to his opposite to see his reaction. “Don’t look so miffed, now.”

Damon squints his eyes real close together, to the point where he can barely see Alex through his eyelashes. “There’s nothing here to like.” He replies, honestly; it should be obvious by now that he’d rather not be here. 

Alex looks amused, like he’s taking the piss. His eyebrows rise playfully and he meets his lips with his glass. He swallows slowly, never bothering to take his eyes off Damon, and you can practically hear it as the gears tick in his head. By the time the cogs have stopped, Alex looks like he’s just settled on something wicked.

“You don’t like me?”

Damon is unimpressed. “We’ve been over this.”

Alex chuckles, drops it. “Truth, mate, is that you just never go out. I say-” Damon swears he sees something evil flicker in his friend’s eyes- “we have some fun in America.”

“What sort?” Damon gets ahead of himself, tripping over his own depressing little precipice. Alex’s got an attraction factor to him. He stops himself before he can seem too excited, and tumble further, pulling his voice back out into a sulky drone. “That’s impossible, anyway.”

Damon squeezes his eyes shut as he hears one more gear click into place in Alex’s head. By the time he’s opened them again, Alex is halfway out the pub, pushing the door open. The bell above the entrance dangles as he leaves and Damon is put into flight or fight mode, slamming down too much fucking cash on the table because he doesn’t know how American tipping works and all of their money is the same color anyway. He runs after his friend, struggling to pull his coat on. 

The rain is coming down harder now than when they first stepped in. It’s barely a minute that the two are outside before they’re both drenched beyond salvation. The whippingly cold wind sends Damon into shivers. He swears he sees his skin paling as it all snaps into goosebumps. 

“This is not fun, Alex,” he growls.

Alex seems oblivious. He’s got a dumb grin plastered across his face, and he’s stupidly trying to light a fag even though it’s obviously not going to work. He flicks at his lighter six times before somehow managing to burn his thumb, to which he curses and finally gives up. Damon watches on in contempt and utter confusion as to why he’s standing out in the rain right now when there’s a nice warm pub playing women’s football right there. 

The tall man pockets his lighter and turns back to his peer. “We haven’t even done anything yet.” 

It’s a beat before Alex yanks Damon’s arm, pulling him along briskly through the soaking streets. He protests, trying to free his arm, but it seems as though the cold has had no effect on Alex and his grip is as tight as ever. Damon, on the other hand, feels on the edge of numbness and he quits his struggling as he realizes that he’s inexplicably weaker at the moment. Instead, he futilely tries to take advantage of Alex’s peacoat because his painfully British windbreaker is not built to withstand such dramatic temperature changes. 

Alex smiles like a trick has just worked out in his favor. “See? I knew you liked me.” He wraps his arm around Damon’s shaking shoulders.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Damon mumbles. 

Alex scans the streets for somewhere to go, because despite his cocky impulsivity he’s getting cold too. His eyes land on a Seven-Eleven, one of those shittily lit convenience stores that would be sure to make Damon uncomfortable. It seems like it’s already swarming with people trying to escape the downpour, but he can see the hazy piss-yellow glow of the LEDs inside and he’s filled with more excitement than a junkie meeting his dealer. The prospect of seeing Damon squirm makes Alex happy. 

Without warning, Alex drags Damon across the street to the crowd of people. It’s an odd lot, that’s for sure; there’s a group of punks under the awning passing a cigarette and a slushie, a few too well-dressed teenage girls, and a couple, who stop practically shagging against the window as they turn to look. Alex and Damon push past, the ladder’s eyes flickering over the two as they stare right back at him.

The bell above the door jangles once again as they walk in. The couple turn away and continue to slobber on each other. 

Damon tsks at the exceedingly public display of affection as he turns back to Alex. He’s not quite sure why it makes him so uncomfortable, but it’s just one thing on the growing list of shit he doesn’t want to deal with today. “How far away are we from the hotel?”

“Got a date?” Alex mumbles, barely even glancing back. He’s busying himself with obtaining a Slurpee, a drink which is both far too cold for a day like today and a dizzyingly artificial blue color. It seems like it’s America all mixed up in one small plastic cup, and it makes Damon want to puke. 

Somewhere deep inside him, it stings that Alex fits in so well, like a needle whittling its way through his organs. Alex is the closest thing he’s got to home, and he’s turning away from it. Damon watches him pull out quarters and dimes, sliding them across the laminate countertop to the cashier. He acts like he’s lived in Chicago for years now, the American censorship hanging heavy over his voice as he asks for the restroom instead of the loo. 

Damon kicks at the ugly green tiles like a petulant child waiting for his toy. His sneakers squeak against the linoleum, leaving ugly dark streaks on the tiles. His own personal mark on this hell country. He smirks to himself. 

Alex doesn’t seem impressed. His easy, nonplussed look makes Damon want to rip his own skin off.

“You’re acting like a prick, y’know?” 

Damon does know, and he goes to make some snarky comment about it, but before he can Alex’s cold hand is squeezed firmly around his and yanking him past the rows of crisps. His mind can’t even think fast enough to fight back. 

He is shoved into the Seven-Eleven public toilets without much valor. He hits the sink hard, and his hands come back to steady himself against the ceramic but it digs into his hips nonetheless. Beneath hooded eyelids he can see Alex locking the door, the click of the metal ringing out in his ears, and he snaps his neck back to look up at the ceiling. 

It hurts a little bit, standing like this, his ass pushed into the faucet. Alex presses himself hard against his front, breathing down his neck, and he can’t even comprehend why. Instead he stares at a growing water stain, dark against the ceiling tiles, and worries for a moment that it might grow so large it will devour him whole. 

“What, you think you’re better than everyone? You’re so fucking infuriating,” He mutters, far too close to his ear, loud and grating. He’s managed to work up his shirt enough that his cold fingertips can touch bare skin, digging in painfully at his hip. 

Damon’s tongue runs into his teeth, and he can’t even speak. He doesn’t think he’s better than anyone, he just wishes he were back in England, not in some shitty Seven-Eleven with LEDs that are too bright. He can’t be fucked to push Alex off, he’s so close that he can almost smell the artificial blue raspberry coming off his breath. 

Alex won’t stop moving, either; he’s lost his grip on Damon’s hip and his hand keeps on moving lower. It’s all vague and hazy, it seems so far away, but somehow before he can stop it he can feel Alex’s fingers rutting against the zipper of his trousers. 

“God, sometimes I wish you’d just shut the fuck up,” Alex mumbles into his ear, and suddenly, his palm is digging up into his dick. He can’t even tell if he makes a noise, he’s so distracted. Damon’s not even hard, but he can’t help but notice that it feels good, and that he might be soon. 

Alex quickly disappears from besides him, and with the shift of weight Damon nearly falls over, but then Alex is there on his knees in front of him again, holding him back against the sink. There’s a beat, and the sound of calloused fingers undoing his zipper abruptly echoes out against the tiled bathroom walls. 

Damon’s not sure if he wants to look down. On one hand, part of him wants to entirely forget that Alex is mouthing at his cock through his boxers, warm and wet and good. On the other, he always loved those big, deep, honey brown eyes of his, and he’d pay to see his own hand knotting up his friend’s hair. What he does know is that Alex’s tongue feels like home right now. 

He hasn’t had the time to get off since he’s come to America, all the stress and shows and drinking. The nights he actually has a room to himself are few and far between, and when he does, he drinks so much it would be a miracle if he could even get it up. It’s the only safe space to drink, he reasons, in the middle of America. 

He would’ve never thought that inside a Seven-Eleven toilet would be his safe space to get off, but here he is, and God, Alex is already pulling down his boxers and he can’t fucking wait. 

Damon has to look down, he can’t just ignore it anymore. Alex looks just as pretty as expected, even under those hazy LEDs. His lips are already starting to swell, but Damon can’t bring himself to give a shit, he’s so hard right now that all he can think about is shoving his cock down Alex’s throat. He offered, anyway. 

Alex goes at it like Alex likes it- quick and rough and searing. His hand is wrapped securely around the base of his cock, but barely moving, and he doesn’t even mind because his mouth is so fucking good. He doesn’t take the time to tease, he just relaxes his throat and goes for it. It’s one of his favorite party tricks. 

Damon can’t imagine holding on for long after that. He’s been pent up for so long, he can’t help it. He has to force himself to dig his fingers into the ceramic sink and Alex’s hair to keep himself steady. “Fuck, Alex,” he says, rather pointedly.

The sounds coming from Alex are obscene, but not nearly as bad as Damon. He can’t even make a noise, he’s just panting so fast he’s feeling practically lightheaded. Alex is looking up at him all innocent, like he doesn’t even know what he’s doing when he runs his tongue along that one part he knows he loves. 

“Alex, fuck, just like that,” he heaves, demandingly tugging his head back and forth the way he likes it. “I’m going to come down your fucking throat,”

It’s quick like that, takes him over before he realizes. It’s a type of fire that starts in his stomach and goes down quicker than he’d like it to, and in a minute he’s doing exactly what he said he’d do: coming, hard, down Alex’s throat and all over his artificial blue tongue. 

Alex smirks and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand easy as could be while Damon is still trying to catch his breath. The bastard doesn’t even bother to zip him back up, he just stands up and dusts himself off. 

“The fuck was that for?” Damon pants out, as he struggles to get his shaking hands to redo his trouser button. He still doesn’t feel like he can move from the sink just yet without falling over. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Alex shrug and vaguely shake his head. “You were being a prick,” he says again, as if that explains it all. 

Damon can’t even force out a laugh, he just watches as Alex makes a face and takes another sip from his now slowly melting bright blue Slurpee. That damn fucking drink.

“You taste like shit, by the way.”

**Author's Note:**

> written a year ago and finished now, inspired by a stumble into a pub after a pride parade. and oh don't we love alex? enjoy <3


End file.
